I, Lord Voldemort (Help!)
by NerfGlaistigUaine
Summary: Getting drunk is bad sure, but magically becoming the genocidal villain of Harry Potter with no idea of what to do... seems a bit harsh for punishment. A self-insert as Lord Voldemort without the knowledge of spells, rituals, or any other memories Voldemort may have had. Mostly comedy fic, my first fanfiction. #BumblingVoldemort.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

A baleful full moon shone down upon a dark, damp graveyard. The graveyard was a special sort, covered with strangely crooked gravestones and filled with an odd smell that suggested the corpses may be far too fresh and the graves far too shallow. In fact, the graveyard seemed designed to host evil rituals and hauntings, practically oozing evil all over the place like a particularly nefarious snail.

The graveyard's evilness was aided by the characters shifting (because in a graveyard like this, they never just stand) within. One rat-faced man with a hunched back and severed arm, one messianic teenager twisting and turning in anguish while strapped to a wooden cross, and one corpse with an oddly pale complexion and dead eyes (and dead hands, dead legs, dead teeth... dead everything really) all added to the general aura of sinisterness that all evil rituals needed. Yet, this concentrated menace paled compared to the figure rising from the cauldron.

This man, if it could be called such, radiated bad vibes so great they made Sauron cream his pants in awe. He was 6 feet of pale gaunt terror, a body the nightmare of every anorexic and a face the envy of every snake. This man was Lord Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the greatest Dark Lord in history, and the centerpiece of all PSA drug posters. His red eyes glared at the graveyard's other occupants, prompting a fearful whimper from the rat/man and a defiant responding glare from the boy on the cross (the corpse didn't respond). Slowly, You-Know-Who (Voldemort, in case you didn't know who) unfurled to his full height, sniffed the air, and asked, in the raspy ominous tones of Ralph Fiennes,

 _"Where the fuck am I!?"_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** All I own is a sick mind and the barest modicum of writing ability.

" _Where the fuck am I!?"_ slurred Charlie, full-time drinker, part-time hobo, and current occupant of Voldemort's body. Charlie was, unsurprisingly, experiencing some slight disorientation. He was naked, which was not new. He was hungover, which was not new. He was standing in a graveyard while half-immersed in murky gunk as men stared at him with a combination of disbelief and horror, which was not new. However, Charlie was naked, hungover, and standing in a graveyard while half-immersed in murky gunk as men stared at him with a combination of disbelief and horror all at the same time, which was new.

The Dark Lord, He-Who-Is-Now-Named-Charlie, surveyed his surroundings. While the overall cleanliness was similar, he didn't think this was the Taco Bell bathroom he'd passed out in. Yet, Charlie was no stranger to waking up in unfamiliar places and so he quickly determined that the first step was walking out of the gunk and asking the nice young boy on the cross where he was.

The next three seconds were perhaps the most crucial seconds of Charlie's life. If these three seconds had played out differently then the rest of this plot may have been about Dumbledore and Harry's epic quest to help one very confused drunk return home. Of course, they didn't because Fate is the type of mistress who likes to kick you in the nuts before taking your credit cards and keys.

In the first second Charlie realizes that the boy on the cross looks suspiciously like Daniel Radcliffe in glasses and robes and the sleeping boy on the ground looks like a dead Edward Cullen (the best kind). In the second second Charlie raises a foot to step out of the cauldron and happens to see his reflection in the potion. Now, the potion wasn't the best of mirrors; it was brown, gooey, and viscous. Therefore Charlie didn't notice how his eyes had turned red, his skin pale white, and his overall appearance slightly prettier.

The absence of a nose was somewhat more readily apparent.

In the third second Charlie, surprised by his suddenly noseless nature, trips over the cauldron's edge and stumbled into Wormtail, who screams in pain as his master's hand closes over the Dark Mark and inadvertently calls for his Death Eaters.

Somewhere, somewhen, Fate laughs on a throne of credit cards.

* * *

In a spooky graveyard there shift an odd two dozen men who look entirely too much like they belong in spooky graveyards, one boy on a cross, and one corpse. The men are standing in a circle around their naked leader, heads bowed and waiting with nervous energy for their master to speak. The boy is preparing himself to die bravely and with wand raised like his parents before him. The corpse is cooling. There is a dramatic moment of silence as everyone (bar the corpse) waits for the Dark Lord to make the first move. No one dares to speak or even breathe- even the owls don't hoot- and the silence reaches a crescendo.

And drags on.

And on.

And on.

One of the Death Eaters faints from lack of air.

The corpse continues cooling.

Slowly, there dawns the supreme awkwardness that only comes when a large group of people have absolutely no idea what to do or say and everyone waits for someone else to do something.

Somewhere, somewhen, Fate invites her friend Lady Luck to watch the show.

For centuries man has searched for the hangover cure. The magical elixir that can cure the pain of a drink too many has been sought after ever since the magical elixir that can cure the pain of a boring night was found. Charlie had found this mythical cure and was having rather mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, he no longer had a hangover. On the other hand, the cure was intense, mind-numbing terror caused by being surrounded by psychopathic, not to mention fictional, murderers who believed he was their leader and, being a highly situational cure, was hardly marketable.

Then again, the question of how to market imminent death as a cure for hangovers was not his most pressing problem- that would be the whole imminent death thing. Charlie was quite certain that if the apparently not fictional death eaters discovered he was not actually their apparently not fictional Dark Lord, then he would be sent to his definitely not fictional demise. The solution then was to convince the assorted men in black bathrobes that he was in fact a mass murdering monster who wanted to have his dastardly way with the boy tied to the cross, hopefully without anyone dying in the process. The easiest way to do this, in Charlie's fear-addled mind, seemed to be to follow the events of the book and allow Harry to escape on his own.

If Charlie had taken a minute to think things through, he'd have realized why this was such a terrible plan.

* * *

"Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived," rasped Lord Voldemort, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife through butter and saving three more of his loyal servants from fainting through self-asphyxiation. "Are you ready to die?" he asked mockingly.

Harry didn't respond, only continued glaring at the man responsible for his orphan status. He continued glaring as his naked nemesis told the masked Death Eater with the luscious locks of fine blond hair (who could only be Lucius. No one else spent more Galleons on their hair than their house), "Let the boy down. Allow the boy-who-lived to beg for mercy before he loses his title forever."

"I will never beg to you," snarled Harry as the ropes binding his limbs to the cross were loosened and he fell to the ground.

Voldemort only sneered at that, his frame projecting nothing but supreme confidence, an effect that was somehow only aided by how he had not a single article of clothing on him. He opened his mouth to speak, no doubt to hurl further insults at his scrawny foe, when he hesitated and his eyes widened in what seemed to be shock. Harry knew he had to be imagining it, but it almost seemed like Voldemort was suddenly scared, though of what he couldn't begin to guess (If Harry had been a better reader of facial expressions he may or may not have realized that Voldemort had the face of a man who's just realized they've come to a gunfight without bringing any bullets).

The expression disappeared from his face a moment later, replaced by cool condescension, and he said, "Wormtail, give the boy back his wand. Lucius, summon the Triwizard Cup to the boy. Let him see what he's won."

Harry didn't see Lucius raise his wand or hear him incant the Summoning Spell. He didn't see the Triwizard Cup zoom across the graveyard to land in the ground in front of him or Wormtail shift over to Cedric's body to get his wand, his eyes were focused on the malevolent red orbs of his foe. He would have only one chance, he knew, just one chance to win while Voldemort still underestimated him. His muscles tensed and he grasped the wand that Wormtail brought him firmly in his hand.

Voldemort spoke with derision, "Wormtail, give me your-"

He never finished the sentence as Harry took his chance and attacked. "EXPELLIARMUS!" he roared, a crimson streak of light bursting from his wand to slam into the chest of his unarmed and unprepared foe.

In any decently written narrative, this is when the action begins. This is when the Dark Lord's mooks shout in shock as their leader is flung away like a rag doll. This is when the hero shouts a war cry and bravely confronts the legions of darkness, courage lighting his heart and giving him strength. This is when the Chosen One prevails against overwhelming odds, culminating in a final epic showdown against the Big Bad where, with the power of friendship and deus ex machina, he defeats his lifelong foe. In any decently written narrative, all of these things would have happened.

Dear Readers, if you've gotten this far, then you should know by now that this is no decently written narrative.

Instead what happened is that Harry, the Death Eaters, and Voldemort all stood in silent surprise as the spell did absolutely nothing besides fizzle out against its target's ribcage.

In all fairness to Harry, he was a fourteen year old boy in very stressful circumstances. If he'd had the time to think things through, he'd have realized that using a Disarming Charm on a man who literally could not be more disarmed (unless you literally took off his arms) was not the brightest of ideas. Harry of course, did not know at the time why his spell hadn't worked. What he did know was that his enemies were all too surprised to act, his attacks didn't seem to work on his opponent, and there was a Portkey sitting right at his feet, waiting to take him back to Hogwarts.

* * *

In a certain British Magical School in Scotland, there is a boy with tear-stained cheeks and a golden cup, listening to deafening cheers as he feels his world falls apart around him. In that same school there is a very old man who knows that something has gone very, very wrong. In the same school again there is a younger man disguised as an older man who knows that something has gone very, very wrong in a different way. In a few minutes the cheers will have stopped, the boy and old man will be filled with sadness and grim determination and the young man… well, he won't be feeling much of anything.

At the same time, in a very spooky graveyard far, far away, there shift two dozen robed men in a circle surrounding one naked man. The graveyard is completely silent with the exception of the conveniently chirping crickets that add to the anticlimactic ambiance. The naked man is thinking "What just happened?" The robed men are thinking "What just happened?" Even the crickets are thinking "What just happened?" Meanwhile, in a forgotten corner of the graveyard, the corpse finishes cooling and slowly starts to rot.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: This chapter is short b/c I feel like I should continue this but have no idea how.

Hogwarts is a castle of many mysteries, most of which are detailed and explained in "Hogwarts: A History"*. What is not told in this dusty book is that most of Hogwarts' mysteries stem from the castle being not only magical and semi-sentient but possessing a perverted sense of humour born from housing thousands of adolescents for centuries. This little fact explains why the stairs always seem to move while people walk down them, why the second leading cause of injuries is attempted vandalism, and why the Hogwarts grounds demonstrate the only confirmed case of reverse pathetic fallacy, in which the scenery and weather always clashes with the mood.

So it was inevitable that, in Hogwarts, a discussion to decide the course of Magical Britain would take place on a clear sunny day in a garishly pink room filled with chirping birds and the song My Heart Will Go On playing in the background.

In that very room the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump, and most powerful man in Wizarding Britain, whose vivid purple robes decorated with dancing unicorns (they literally danced across the fabric) fit the room's decor perfectly, asked his most trusted spy, "You said WHAT?!"

His spy, one Severus Snape, sneered down at the blue jay perched on his shoulder and said, "The Dark Lord has requested that I set up a meeting with you, Dumbledore, in which the two of you can, in his words, 'peacefully discuss how to overcome our differences and work towards a mutually satisfactory resolution.' He also requested that I keep this meeting a secret from the other Death Eaters but to reassure you that you may bring as many people as you want." Here Snape added another Snape Sneer, this time to the hummingbird that had set down on his lap, and added almost as an afterthought "He also said you can choose the time and place, he's free all day."

"I see," said Dumbledore, who most certainly did not see and was wondering if his Potions Professor had finally snapped. "And what else has Voldemort done so far?"

Dumbledore, to his credit, realized how wrong the situation was before Snape had spoken another word, when he showed no reaction to the Dark Lord's chosen name, although he quickly revised his assessment of the level of wrongness far upwards with every word Snape spoke.

"He's stolen Lucius' wand, bought a dozen snakes from a Muggle pet store and named them after Roman emperors, declared Dolohov his new Head Death Eater, bought every House Elf on the market, said he was going on summer vacation and not to wait up, and hired a fashion designer from Paris to create the new Death Eater uniforms. Said the old ones didn't have enough 'pizazz'," said Snape in a voice that was worryingly not sarcastic or snide at all but rather flat and monotonous.

"I… see," replied Dumbledore who felt he was getting blinder with each passing moment. His vision and questionable fashion aside though, Dumbledore was an insightful man and he could tell that something was wrong with his double agent, besides the ludicrous tales he was telling. "Is there something else you want to tell me?"

For a long time the greasy Potions master was silent and when he finally spoke his voice was so quiet it was nearly drowned out by the warbling tones of Celine Dion**

"He apologized for Lily's death. He asked for my forgiveness and said he never meant for it to happen," whispered Severus. This time there was no sneer in his face when he looked at Dumbledore, there was no expression at all, but his eyes were those of a pope who's discovered that God is an inebriated monkey who makes decisions through games of quoit, utterly lost. "The Dark Lord told me that if I ever want to talk about it, he'll be there and that if I want to quit my job, he'll understand."

There was no response to that statement, not even a blatantly false 'I see'. For once in his life the great and powerful Dumbledore was completely lost for words.

And so, the first meeting of the Second Wizarding War ended with a silence thick enough to choke on, and as the castle replaced the chirping birds with tap dancing flamingos and the words to "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" began to sound over nonexistent speakers, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore wondered what possible nefarious purpose Voldemort could have for his recent actions.

* * *

In a forest in Albania, the Dark Lord Charlie wondered what reason he could possibly have had for his recent actions. They'd seemed smart when he'd made them, but making decisions while terrified out of his wits may not have been smart in the first place. No matter, that was the past and he knew what he had to do now. His loyal house elves, those formidable warriors who escaped the notice of the stuck-up wizards, were already aiding him in his new task.

Flourishing his newly acquired wand, the most powerful dark wizard of the century jabbed at the feather and roared, "WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!"

The feather exploded.

"Bloody Hell! Ditzy, get me another feather!"

* * *

 _*The only reason they're still considered mysteries is that more people have read "Does God Ever Speak through Cats" (he does) then "Hogwarts: A History"_

 _**Near, Far, WherEEEver you are_


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Still got no idea where this is going. If you like, please review. If you have any ideas, please suggest them.

Death Eaters, like Nazis, Stalinists, or the Ice Capades*, had three types of members. There were the crazies, like Bellatrix, who believed in the nonsensical ideology and craved violence. There were the corrupt, like Lucius, who were mostly cowards and cohorts looking to ride the coattails of someone stronger than they. And then there were the competent, the smallest group, who joined for any number of reasons but were the same (and unique) in that they were efficient, ruthless, and overall more like bankers than terrorists (far more dangerous for one).

Antonin Dolohov was a member of the latter group. Cool, calm, and collected he was by far the most dangerous Death Eater, holding the increasingly impressive achievements of having survived a duel with Dumbledore, possessing a spells to hits ratio of over 10%**, and never being Crucioed by their illustrious leader. Where others jumped in with cries of Leeroy Jenkins (or would've if they'd known who Leeroy Jenkins was) Dolohov possessed the rare trait of common sense and the ability to think before acting, making him a unique existence in any group. More than anything else it was Dolohov's ability to rationally dissect any situation and choose the best possible path that made him one of the most deadly men in Britain.

Now, as Dolohov watched the Dark Lord screaming and waving his wand furiously at a white bunny while half a dozen House Elves danced around him and hundreds of feathers littered the clearing on fire, floating, or floating and on fire, he had the novel thought that perhaps the word "rational" didn't belong anywhere within a light year of this… whatever this was.

He'd realized, of course, that something was wrong with the newly resurrected Dark Lord, only an idiot wouldn't notice that he'd been acting a bit off ***, but he'd thought it might be a mere temporary side effect of coming back from the dead and that a few rounds of good old Muggle hunting would make things right as rain again.

That was before he'd seen his leader losing in mortal combat to a fluffy rabbit.

Hundreds of possibilities and scenarios raced through Dolohov's mind. Could they win the war with Voldemort in this state? Should he take over the Death Eaters? Could this seeming bout of insanity be a test from Voldemort? But no, none of these things mattered. There was only one path he could walk, one answer to his problems. It was clear to Dolohov that, seeing as his leader had limboed beneath the already low bar of sanity among Pureblood Supremacists, he had but a single choice. Reaching carefully into his Bag of Holding, the world's most dangerous Death Eater summoned a small, pitch-black stone. Carefully he picked up the stone, whispered a few words, and Portkeyed to Fiji.

Dolohov was a smart man and smart men knew when to fold them.

* * *

Harry Potter woke up. He'd been having a nightmare.

If this was a movie he would have woken up with a scream or a gasp as his upper body rocketed off the sheets and he stared wide-eyed at the demons that existed only in his mind.

This wasn't a movie so Harry Potter didn't do any of that. He woke up, from a nightmare, sat up, and put on his glasses.

The green flash of light had pervaded every second of his sleep for months now. The blank eyes of Cedric Diggory, the wheezy laugh of Wormtail, and the pale, naked body of his hated foe - his red slitted eyes, his nonexistent nose, his dangling

NO.

But this dream had been different from all the others. This time he'd felt Voldemort's anger, his pure unbridled rage at something, something pure and innocent. He'd vaguely heard shrill voices and seen small, dancing figures as well as hundreds of will-o-wisps floating around the Dark Lord as he wove spells that Harry was sure he could not even begin to understand.

Voldemort was not simply staying idle, Harry knew that now. He was planning something, enacting some horrible ritual, plotting in his every waking moment how to take down the Ministry and Hogwarts and install his own horrible regime. And Harry also knew, with a grim sense of certainty, that Voldemort would be coming for him again, that he would not rest until he'd killed the Boy-who-Lived.

As the images of Cedric's cooling corpse danced before his eyes again, Harry gripped his wand and promised that when the Dark Lord came again, he'd be ready for him.

* * *

 _*By far the most dangerous of the bunch_

 _** The average spells to hit ratio among Death Eaters was .02%, just slightly higher than that of an Imperial Stormtrooper._

 _***It should surprise no one that none of the other Death Eaters had noticed anything was off. At all._


End file.
